Healing Hands
by cedarrapidsgirl78
Summary: Hawkeye's had enough. Will anyone be there for him?


**A/N-Another song-fic from me! I can write other stuff, but songs can be so inspiring! And as usual, the words in italics are the song. The song is called "Healing Hands" and it is by Marc Cohn, from the album Burning the Daze. I heard it on the "ER" soundtrack. If you ever need some good quiet music, I recommend tracks 4-10 on that album. I don't own the song "Healing Hands" or MASH. I just like them. Please read and review. Thanks to all my reviewers on my other fics. **

Hawkeye sighed as he stepped out into the hot, Korean night. He leaned up again the tin wall of pre-op, hoping that the metal would take away some of the oppressive heat, as well as some of the exhaustion that was setting in quickly. Unfortunately, it did neither. It was late, sometime in the wee hours of the morning, and the rest of the surgical staff and personnel of the 4077th were all sleeping off another marathon surgery session. He knew that he should go back to the Swamp, and join the land of the dead asleep, but he was too tired to move. So Hawkeye slid down the wall, and sat on the ground, his back still against the warm metal, thinking.

36 hours.

36 _flipping_ hours of meatball surgery. Kid after kid after kid. They just kept coming and coming and coming. Some will go back to the front, some will go back home. Some will go back home to family alive, and some will go back home to family dead.

36 hours. At least it wasn't 48. Or-help us all-72.

36 hours was still too long. Hell, 36 minutes digging unidentified flying shrapnel out of a kid's gut was too long. As long as I'm on a roll, why not go for 36 seconds? Now there's the perfect amount of time for surgery. In-and-out, neat-and-clean, spic-and-span and ready to go to post op. Like he said, perfect.

Hawkeye scoffed. Who was he kidding? Certainly not himself. Any time he or anyone else spent in the OR repairing kids that shouldn't have been broken in the first place was too long. None of the 4077th should be here. We should all be back in the states, living in our idyllic world, where all the problems that we might have would either be solved with a kiss and a band-aid, or the next paycheck or two.

Hawkeye sighed again. Maybe other people could live like that now, but he knew that he never could. He'd seen too much, witnessed too much, experienced too much to ever live life the same way again. And he hated it. So very much. He didn't even realize that tears were running down his cheeks.

_Tonight I cried the tears of a child_

_who knows what fear runs deep and wild, inside._

_But the river's in flood tonight_

He had never really let himself cry before. Sure, he had shed some tears for some tough cases that didn't make it, and he cried about the death of Tommy, but nothing like this. This was different. This was for a loss of something intangible. This was for what was dead inside him, his hopes, his dreams, any hope of a normal life. Those were all gone. All that was left was a shell for his former self. And he'd never get that back.

Hawkeye's emotions overwhelmed him, and he laid down on the hard ground. He closed his eyes as the world spun around him. Maybe if he laid here long enough, he'd spin himself back to Crabapple Cove, away from all this. This carnage, craziness.

_I lay down and the light streamed across my face_

_I felt the beauty of some deeper grace_

_and I tried_

_to find my way to the other side_

"Hawkeye?"

"Hawkeye didn't look up. He didn't really want to be found right now, and while he recognized the voice, maybe if he didn't recognize that the owner of the voice was now kneeling beside him, maybe they would go away.

"Hawkeye? Are you going to be okay?"

"No." It was all he could say. How could he ever tell anyone else how he felt. They wouldn't understand. "No." He said again.

"C'mon, Hawkeye, let's go." An outstretched hand, ready to help him up. And then another hand, around his shoulder, helping him to his feet.

_Well ,I feel your skin as smooth as silk_

_drunk like a baby on his mama's milk_

_Take me down under the wishing tree_

_Lay your healing hands on me._

_Only you..._

They went to the mess tent, deserted at this hour. Hawkeye was grateful for that. He didn't want to see or talk to his anybody, including his friend right now, and he really didn't want to see or talk to Igor. Igor was probably dreaming about powdered eggs and powdered chickens or if he could cream spam, or even liver and fish. He probably could. And probably would. Hawkeye spent some time dreaming about food. And not Army food. Real food. He would love to have a real Maine lobster. With butter. And some fresh blueberries. A voice broke through his daydream.

"Okay, Hawkeye. Now that we have only a little more privacy than outside, do you want to talk?"

Hawkeye scowled. He didn't really appreciate having his daydream interrupted. He didn't want to face reality. Reality was hard and mean. Reality was the kids he operated on, the blood, the death. Reality was dealing with feelings he didn't want to deal with. Loving people he shouldn't. Why was it he fell for the ones that were already taken? He spoke.

"No. I don't want to talk about it."

_Been a long time riding this deserted train_

_There's no messiahs out here, baby_

"Hawkeye, you know that you're just one man. You can't do it all. You can't save everyone."

"I can't even save myself, it's no wonder I can't save anyone."

"You're not listening, Hawkeye. I didn't say 'anyone', I said 'everyone'."

"I know what I said." They both lapsed into silence. Finally, someone broke it.

"Let's go. We both need to get some sleep. Eventually." They both smiled and left the mess tent, together.

_But I found the holy grail, alright._

'_Cause I'm lying in your arms tonight_

_I feel your skin as smooth as silk_

_drunk like a baby on his mama's milk_

_Take me down under the wishing tree_

_Lay your healing hands on me._

_Lay your healing hands on me._


End file.
